Recruiting Strategy
by akheliades
Summary: A re-telling of one swordsman's origin - minor A/U. Please read and review!


DISCLAIMER: I never read the origin of Shatterstar, one of the formers members of X-Force. The odd thing is that he was originally searching for the X-Men. This story is a possibility . of what would happen if he did find them first?  
  
Comments are welcome. Tell me what you think!  
  
~ akheliades  
  
============================  
  
Terrible pain.  
  
Preparations were futile at best. The Resistance scientists could only project the pain levels from already-complex computer models; after long- winded explanations of physical and chemical interprocesses, he lost track of the meanings and would nod at anything they said. This was not his area of expertise, after all, and nor was it expected of him.  
  
He understood his role in the Resistance, and the purpose behind his assignment. Or so he thought. In the end, it only meant searing pain, as cells and tissues were phasing out of one time-phase and rebuilt in another. The process required an enormous amount of energy, and the transfer would not come without a price.  
  
He ground his teeth and tasted enamel. Just a little longer. Another minute, perhaps, and it will be over. He gained some feeling in his left hand, and then in his right leg. That was a good sign.  
  
One more jump; one more duty. Then it will be over.  
  
============================  
  
His body shook for a moment, and then he opened his eyes. Light .. bright colors. Cold .. and snow? The smell of rotting waste .. an alleyway? He examined his surroundings, and with a relieved sigh, confirmed no immediate enemies. His hands left his swordhilt and blaster holster, albeit reluctantly.  
  
An unnoticed appearance .. very lucky indeed. He rose slowly and brushed off bits of paper and food waste from his garb. Moving silently, he peered from the alley walls: humans .. all races and sizes, dressed for relatively- warm climates, and thoroughly unarmed. Undamaged buildings, save the damage of time and wear. Continuous streets paved by concrete and chemicals.  
  
No ruins, no devastation. This was not what he expected. Perhaps this was Eurasia, where the damage was far less? Still, the populace seemed more complacent than they should, considering the regular threat to their species.  
  
He examined his own clothing, and compared it to the passerby. These may well be rags to their standards, but it cannot be helped. He steadied his mind, and entered the crowds. An elderly woman came to his right .. Spanish? Mediterranean? He couldn't be sure. At the least, a nonaggressive approach would be best, here.  
  
"Pardon me, Grandmother," he asked in his kindest voice, "Where is this place, and what is the day and year?"  
  
The woman looked surprised at the derelict man and his formal, olden tone. "Young man, this is Tribeca, New York, and today is Christmas Eve, 2000." The young man was visibly shocked, but offered a humble thank-you and departed. She let loose the breath that she unconsciously held, and whispered a short prayer to the Virgin Mother. One could never tell what could happen these days, when beggars would confront you with questions.  
  
New York? So this is America in 2000? Impossible, he decided. Where is that devil, Apocalypse and his tainted reach? Has this world been spared by from that ambition? Peace .. and a holiday! This was a surprise .. but for him, a terrible one.  
  
Perhaps the subjugation here is hidden .. widely instituted, and the populace grown under its yoke, he wondered .. and thus the Resistance will likely be difficult to find ..  
  
His thoughts wandered, more so than usual, and he collided with a larger man.  
  
==============================  
  
"Hey, watch where you're going!" the burly man yelled, shoving him back. He quickly regained his balance.  
  
"I apologize. I meant no harm," was his quick, muffled reply.  
  
"Yeah? What kind of freak are you, anyways? Bums like you don't belong around here, in this neighborhood!" Another shove, but he did not move a micron.  
  
"We have no quarrel. Leave me be," he insisted, but the other man stood his ground. Others began to join his side.  
  
"Like hell I will. Didn't Guilliani pass laws to get rid of you people? Those city officials won't get it right, ever," he spat. "Well, my buddies and I don't like having bums around here near our families, and we're gonna do something about it .. starting with you."  
  
The large man reached for him, but a quick blow to the head prevented his advance.  
  
"This is a final warning. I only wish to pass." His body was already half- ready for combat, but if they could be persuaded otherwise ..  
  
"The hell!" The large man wiped the blood from his lip. "Gimma a hand, fellas." And they swarmed him .. all six of them.  
  
He has seen better-armed and -trained opponents, and worse odds. But these were civilians, and lives were not expendable here. Nerve strikes and quick blows .. but these men were determined. Punches and kicks .. and then one man raised a crooked metal bar at him ..  
  
===============================  
  
His sword unsheathed and sliced it in two. Then the blade swept a defensive circle, and his opponents retreated.  
  
"He's got a sword! Get the police!" someone yelled. People began to crowd, but gave him a wide berth .. and in the distance, he could hear alarms. Attention is trouble .. remember your protocols. He sheathed his sword in a gesture of good will, but it seemed to make the crowd bolder.  
  
He tried to break through the crowd, but the people would push back, and the berth was shrinking. He couldn't release his blade now, for fear of taking innocent lives .. and the alarms grew louder. He could see red and blue lights arriving closer .. the local constabulary? The situation is untenable.  
  
With his last options lost, he retrieved a dagger and raised his hands in the air. He concentrated.  
  
A bolt of pure energy erupted from the center of the crowd, and then people began to run. Some toppled themselves on their neighbors in their haste, and there were screams of pain. Above all the din, there was a single shout:  
  
"Omigod! It's a mutant!"  
  
He could only wince. Untenable. He wondered, if En Sabah Nur has no power here, then what do humans make of mutants?  
  
Then he heard the universal sound of gunfire, and leapt straight into combat.  
  
==============================  
  
Scott was examining the wine list when Jean reached for her temple. The waiter paused, and looked at him. He winced, and thinking quickly, requested a glass of water for her.  
  
"I don't suppose it's a headache?" he tried. His wife shook her head.  
  
"Mutant attack - by the Broadway subway station."  
  
"Morlocks?"  
  
"No .. the psi patterns look like a disoriented mind .. ambushed? I'm reaching the Professor .. yes." She blinked, and continued.  
  
"Cerebro reports an Alpha-level mutant: energy dispeller. Charles hasn't scanned him yet. Strong shielding."  
  
"Who's in the area?" Already his body grew tense. The Professor not scanned him? Strategies were beginning to form in his mind, building on his knowledge of Downtown New York.  
  
"Betsy and Warren are in Worthington Towers, in Warren's suite. Betsy says they can meet us there in a few minutes. By wing." She smiled.  
  
"I'll get the check."  
  
"We haven't ordered anything, honey."  
  
"Right."  
  
============================  
  
He looked from the ground to the woman in his arms. Life could be worse.  
  
There were many things that Warren Worthington the III didn't understand about the world. Why his mutation would give him wings, and tragedy would warp them to metal. Why they became flesh and feather again .. why he didn't have telescoping eyesight like an eagle's, so that he could be more effective in the air. He only concluded that Mother Nature was a finicky woman, if he ever met one.  
  
Time and circumstance would also come by a close second. By virtue of wearing the X, mutants like Warren could be called to perform their self- imposed duty of protecting the world. He could have paid others to do what he does and quite effectively, too. Then he could return to the light lunch with his lady love, and life would not complicate itself too much.  
  
But he loved flying, and more so, flying with Betsy. She would hold him more tightly then than during any other times in their battle-led lives. The physical bond felt just as strong as their mental one, and that was hardly a light matter. She was, after all, a telepath.  
  
They were nearing close to the target. Betsy insisted on neutralizing the target immediately - he winced at her words, and the ninja ruthlessness in them. But he did see her point, and if it would make the mission pass more quickly, he would be willingly to entertain a few ideas.  
  
He took a deep breath. The Asian woman looked at him, and he nodded to the ground. She nodded, ready. Then he released his breath, and Betsy.  
  
Sailing through the air, she connected with the rag-covered mutant on the ground below. He hated when she had to do that.  
  
Direct hit, but somehow the mutant in question rolled and remained active, deflecting and exhanging blows with the X-Man below. She then opened her psychic knife, and the dance continued. An alpha-class mutant and a competent fighter.  
  
He sighed, and began to swoop down. Life could be worse.  
  
=================================  
  
Was this fighter one of the city authorities? She is not in a standard uniform of any sort, he surmised. Rather bare for this climate. She was barely avoiding his blade strokes, and he her energy blades. Rather good form; if this is the way they train counter-forces ..  
  
The mutant did not register any memories in him. A passing familiar technique .. something called Hand? He was still in an untenable position, but the confrontation was impossible to escape. She would corner his side- motions and follow immediately on short trails.  
  
A duck and a quick look over his shoulder presented two advancing figures in blue and gold, not the regime's purple and red. A halting memory comes to him.  
  
X-Men? True X-Men? Would they wear the colors in public appearances? A rush of air urged him to take cover, and he narrowly sidestepped an aerial swoop from a winged mutant .. Worthington? The Angel? Why a mixed role with the others? Do they simply mean to contain me?  
  
A risky chance on a guess. He countered a delayed hand-stab from the other fighter, and then leapt back. Sheathing his blade, his stance is relaxed, waiting for the quartet to assemble themselves.  
  
They pause as well. So I'm still alive - this is tenable, then.  
  
"X-Men, I presume?" he asks cautiously. Half-ready to lapse into combat, he stops when the red-haired woman calls out:  
  
"Longshot?" she asked, unconvincingly.  
  
"Shatterstar," he corrected. "My name is Shatterstar. I've found you, then." 


End file.
